This Time Imperfect
by ReisDular
Summary: 2,362 years after the destruction of the Moon That Never Sets the world of Endines is again in dire peril. The Dragoon Spirits awaken to offer their aid, but is it enough to save a dying world?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Sony pretty much owns The Legend of Dragoon, however the majority of the characters which will arise in this story belong to me.

This Time Imperfect

Prologue

_All things created exist to be destroyed. That is the fate of things that live. Life is powered only by death; they exist together as part of a cycle, a wheel that spins round and round through space and time never ending until one day all stops, and the cycle begins again._

_A tiny light...a breath in the darkness...a pulse...a heartbeat. All that was planned will come to fruition. This is my purpose. Not to destroy, but to give life._

_I walk in the footsteps of Soa._

* * *

A platinum haired man stood tense against a richly decorated guard rail. His pale hands, once clenched tightly about the hilt of a sword, now held on to the rail like a vice. From the room at his back there came a scream that sent dread through him. Like a shock wave it propelled his body away from the rail. For a moment he struggled, instinct against reason, and finally he willed himself back to the railing. Again from the room a scream echoed, and he clung to the rail as though it could save his own life and that of the woman behind the door. As much as he wanted to, he could not go to her. He knew better, especially in this country that was governed by women. It was taboo for a man to be present at the birthing of a child.

"Please," He whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as to her he sent all his strength. "Take courage."

Moments later, a final, weakened cry issued from behind that locked door. Then nothing. He strained to hear: the sound of a baby's cry, a mother's wail of loss, the midwife shouting orders, anything! But there was nothing. There was only a dreadful silence that seemed to pass into a gaping eternity that echoed round the confining walls of an ageless, empty heart.

The door opened behind him, and he spun around. The nurse, Setie, looked at him with tears in her large doe eyes. With those eyes she spoke to him of loss and whispered apologies without ever saying a word, and he would have none of it! He refused to believe what he saw in their depths! He pushed past the woman in a flurry, so quickly she did not even realize until he was already in the room.

"No! Don't!"

"Setie, you fool! Get him out of here!"

The voice that spat the order was as sharp as the pain that washed through him, twisting his insides. It pierced his heart with cold, wicked talons that forced the breath from his very lungs. There on the bed lay his love and his life. Her soft blonde hair was splayed across the pillow. It stuck together in clumps and plastered itself to her forehead by sweat. The sheets around her legs, her soft pale thighs, the skirt she'd been wearing, all were soaked with blood, the dark secret blood of a woman's womb, the blood that had nourished their child, and more blood, the blood of her whole body.

He took all this in, even as the women scrambled to cover her, to hide her from his eyes. Finally, they alighted on a small, carefully wrapped bundle placed on the small table where rightly their baby should be.

Nothing. Her struggle, for nothing. Her devotion, for nothing. Her death… Nothing.

He buried his face in his hands, his tainted hands that could create nothing, that could only hold a sword and follow the misguided deeds of others. Hands that should never have held her! He felt like screaming. He must have screamed. But he knew only the hollow ache in his chest where his heart should have been.

"Please," Setie begged as she tugged on his arm, "come away."

He dropped his hands and stared down at Setie with empty eyes, not really seeing her or feeling her small weight attempting to pull him away. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he understood and turned to follow her when from the table there came a small strangled noise. The room froze. The noise was followed immediately by the long anticipated sound of a baby's wail. Everyone turned, and for a moment no one moved. Finally, the father approached it and unwrapped it with careful hands.

A girl.

She lashed out at the world with tiny limbs and screamed with a voice much larger than her body. Screamed for the mother she had killed.

And in that instant, he understood.

Nearby were the doors to the balcony. With one arm he roughly scooped the child up and with his free hand he threw open the doors. Before any of the nurses could stop him he had the child over the railing, holding her by only one limb.

"Stop," Cried the midwife, the First Sacred Sister of Mille Seseau. "You don't have to do this! It is not the child's fault. If you must blame someone blame me for not being able to save her!"

He ignored the woman's plea, his attention focused instead on the child. "Abomination," he growled as the child's wails grew louder. "Neither human nor Wingly. In ancient times, in this very palace, you would never have been born. I should let you plummet to the ground, should destroy that which was never meant to be," he paused, the room drew its breath, "but would I then save you? Would you save yourself?"

Slowly he drew the child back and gently curled his arms around her. The tension in the room ebbed. The nurses exhaled in relief, but slowly began to gather together. Miranda was talking in her most soothing voice, but he didn't have ears for her for the baby quieted and opened her eyes to blearily gaze up at him. Her eyes. They were red violet, like all Wingly babies. In fact, her coloring lent nothing to her human heritage.

"We'll find her a nurse," Miranda was saying. "Leave her here in Mille Seseau, we will raise her as a Sacred Sister."

"No," he replied softly, thoughtfully. "She will have a Wingly nurse. She will be raised as a Wingly." He turned his crimson eyes to the darkening sky where the night's first stars and the remnants of The Moon That Never Sets sparkled. "Welcome to the world my daughter…"

The hum of magic reverberated thought the room as his wings of light blossomed from his back. Effortlessly, the Wingly lept from the balcony and into the eternal sky.

"Lloyd!"

* * *

_Welcome to the world my daughter._

_Welcome to Endiness._


	2. Chapter 1: Field of Sorrow

This Time Imperfect

Chapter 1: Field of Sorrows

A chill breeze threaded its way through the hilly valley, coursing over the grassy knolls and whispering through the sparse trees. It roamed across the valley reveling in its utter freedom as it danced beneath the stars. Chancing momentarily over the figure of a man standing at the crest of a gently rolling hill it lingered to run invisible fingers through his long mahogany hair. Then, tugging on his cloak in farewell, it wandered away once more.

The king of Sandora sighed into the wind.

At the base of the hill stood another man. If anyone had been standing with him they would have seen the worry in his dark eyes as he gazed up at the form of the monarch on the hill. What he truly saw was not a king or a general or even their army's greatest banner. What he saw was a man, whom he had known since childhood, tired, weak, and unguarded. Unconsciously, he shifted his weight causing his sheathed sword to hit his violet and gold armor with a soft clunk. The sound seemed to rouse him for he suddenly started up the hill.

He slowed to a halt just behind the man and called out, "Your Majesty?". The king, Richard, started and turned his emerald gaze on the soldier who now stood beside him. "Listening to the wind, Sire?" The corners of the young general's mouth turned up in an easy smile. "Does it bring you good tidings?"

The smile he was given in turn was small and fleeting, infused with Richard's bittersweet musings. "Nay, Belial," his voice came out as a sigh as he returned his gaze to the plains. "Would that they could impart to us the tales of their long journey. Alas, they do not boast to us of their secrets." He blinked and frowned slightly at his unintended use of the majestic plural. "I think I have been king too long."

Belial seemed to find this amusing for he chuckled softly but heartily as was his way. Then the violet armored general clanked, giving Richard the distinct impression that the man had shrugged. "The men are agitated, Sire. Perhaps you should be among them now."

He shook his head slightly, "Not just now."

"Sire?"

Richard turned to the commander. "I shall, Belial," he replied, sounding defeated, "but for the moment I wish to remain alone to think."

Belial bowed. "Of course, Sire. I shall leave you."

Richard nodded and turned his gaze back to the plains as the commander turned to leave. "Belial." He called suddenly.

Half way down the hill Belial stopped and turned. "Sire?"

"Take a message to Degen and the other commanders. We have made our decision and will not have it questioned. If tomorrow's campaign fails our army will retreat to Tiberoa as originally planned."

"My Lord, I do not—"

Richard held up a hand to silence him, "This is the way it must be. Our time here grows short. Nothing can be left to chance."

"Richard," the dark haired man began, his voice laced with a tone of familiarity that the king found disconcerting and turned his tired gaze into something stern and sharp.

"We will not be questioned, Belial. We do not suffer optimism and hope where we must look down the maw of reality."

The knight struggled with his words for a moment, allowing an awkward silence to reign between them. Finally, thinking better than to argue with his king, he let go of his argument. "My Lord is quite blunt in the matter." He replied, his voice devoid of its former pleading warmth. "I will relay your orders to Degen."

Richard nodded sharply and returned his gaze to the silent, starlit night. Belial lingered on the hillside. In his mind he made the excuse that it was because he had not been formally dismissed, but in reality it was because he knew his childhood friend, knew him quite a bit better, he thought, than the man knew himself. Sure enough it was not long before Richard spoke again in a softer voice. "You know as well as I that our chances of survival now are slim, but our sister nation can benefit from our demise. Every man counts, and Tiberoa will have great need of them if we fall."

Belial nodded and then added for his benefit, because the king could not see him, "I understand, Richard."

With a sigh the tension in the king's stance seemed to leave him, born away on the gentle winds of the plains. He turned and approached Belial, "I know my friend," he said placing his hands on the other man's shoulders, "and I thank you. Now you go to Degen and we shall go impart what little encouragement we can to our soldiers."

Belial bowed and backed away a pace before turning and hurrying to find Degen. Richard lingered only a moment before moving toward the first campfire.

The night was cool and sweet. Not at all surprising for fall in mid-Serdio. The lush grass plains spread for miles in every direction, bathed in the light of the moon. Far to the east lay the languorous outline of the Topes Mountain range which separated the countries of Serdio and Tiberoa. To the far west, pale and quiet, lay the Villude Mountain Range, and just to the north beyond a knoll lay the army of the Republic of Basil, waiting.

Richard walked among the camp fires, talking to his men, imparting to some words of comfort, exchanging idle banter with others. They seemed to take comfort in the quiet confidence he had in them, and the words he had for them, but nothing could comfort the disquieting voice inside of him. The whispering voice of the winds on the plains haunted him. It was true what he had told Belial. Richard was not privy to the wind's secret comings and goings, but sometimes, when he quieted his thoughts and his heart, and listened just so, he though perhaps he was eavesdropping. And tonight something in the air boded ill for Sandora.

Nevertheless he sat with his men, he smiled and nodded and showed them his faith in them. If anything did go wrong tomorrow, he knew in his heart that it was not for lack of strength, love, and loyalty in these men.

These men.

This army.

This country.

Sandora.

Serdio.

Richard looked up at the stars. What cruel fate smiled down upon him that evening he did not know.

No one ever saw the cloaked Basileen soldiers that swung wide around the army's left flank.

* * *

Through the early morning haze rode a gold clad figure astride a steed of chestnut and violet. Had the sun been shining he would have shone like a beacon across the plains, but the mornings of late had been wet and gloomy. A herald to the approaching winter, or a land mourning for its people? The gold rider did not know.

The rider pulled back on the reigns, forcing the animal beneath him to a halt. He stood in his stirrups and gazed over his right shoulder, the shoulder of his sword arm. Spread across the field, hidden partially by the fog, an army of gold and violet clad knights stood in rank.

At first sight, the army might have seemed intimidating, but only because their numbers were partially obscured by the fog. The army of Sandora rode only six thousand strong against the forces of Basil.

The gold clad warrior sighed heavily and raised his voice to shout over the crowd.

"Knights of Sandora," He began, and six thousand voices rose to meet him. "Today," the cry died down, "is the beginning of the end of fifty-five long years of war," Again he was cocooned by the voice of Sandora, and in his heart he felt a pang of guilt and regret and other emotions he could not name, none of which was anger. He'd overcome that long ago. He let the cries die down again before he continued. "Remember, twelve thousand years ago, when we were shackled and chained in servitude! The memory is in your blood! Sandora will not yield, Sandora will not kneel! For Sandora, for King Richard! The war ends here, for Endiness!"

The cry rose up over the valley, six thousand bodies whose blood remembered the injustice of twelve thousand years before. Six thousand voices that, with each cry, swore they would grovel before masters nevermore.

Even if those masters were men like themselves.

The sun shone now over the valley. It burned away the fog, and the rider astride his steed shone in the sunlight as a savior must from heaven. At the crest of a high hill just behind the final ranks of the army, another gold rider shone forth. But Richard knew that on the battlefield he did not shine half so brightly as Degen, the golden general below him.

"Ho," Richard's eyes flicked toward Belial at his side. "Majesty, the enemy approaches."

"Sound the horn," commanded the king and Belial twisted in his saddle to signal the trumpeter.

The clarion sounded, cool and sweet, full of promises and glory. Below, Degen unsheathed his mighty sword.

"Die well," Richard whispered his voice inaudible to all but the one who stood beside him. Belial turned sharply at his king's words but was stopped fast by the set of Richard's face. He averted his eyes to the ground, chocolate orbs searching the earth as if he could find his answers there, then wordlessly he returned them to the field once more.

Richard threw a hand into the air and gestured swiftly forward. The clarion call sounded again and far below the golden rider mirrored his king's gesture, swinging his sword down in a forward arc, its tip pointed at the heart of the enemy formation.

"Charge!"

His command was drowned in battle cries and the thunder of two advancing armies.

The gold and violet Sandorans crashed against the green and silver Basileens with all the effect of a wave against a mountain, but by some miracle of fate, or the sheer will of man, the line held.

The battle progressed rapidly. Unfortunately for Sandora it deteriorated in the same way. Richard watched the scene before him with grief stricken eyes as wave upon wave of Basileens forced back his own beloved Sandora.

"Your Majesty!" shouted a soldier on horseback as he skidded up alongside the king. "The Fifth has suffered mass casualties."

Richard gave the man a pointed glare. "They cannot fall back. Send them as many soldiers as you can find to reinforce them, but they cannot break the line."

The soldier nodded, "Aye, Milord," The soldier spurred his horse and was gone.

The mask that had swept so easily into place as he faced the messenger fell once more as Richard's eyes were drawn back to the battlefield below him. His hands tightened on the reigns of his mount until he could no longer feel his fingers and still he did not loosen them. One year ago when he had left Castle Kazas, the capitol of Sandora, on this campaign against Basil he had had high hopes of repelling the advance of his cousin's army. In the end he had found hope and optimism were not enough to change the course of one's fate.

"Richard."

The sound of the familiar voice prompted him to relax his grip. He had no need to turn and look at the man beside him for it was a face and voice he knew well beyond sight and sound.

"Perhaps Your Majesty should see to the wounded."

"You would relegate us to the duties of nurse, Belial?"

"It would reassure them, Sire."

"Your Majesty," called a voice in urgency. Both men turned to watch a young soldier sprinting up the hill toward them.

"Your Majesty," the boy said again as he came to a panting halt. "The fifth has fallen back, Sire the line could not be held."

Richard cursed softly. "Belial, send in the sixteenth cavalry."

The man blinked at the king as his mind attempted to wrap itself around Richard's command. The sixteenth cavalry was his division and it was the only thing guarding Richard atop this knoll. "But, Sire that will leave your position unguarded."

"Take them and go, Belial.

The man was even more taken aback. "Me, Sire?"

"You are their commanding officer."

Belial's brow creased in consternation. "No."

Richard turned sharply to Belial, "What?"

"I will send the sixteenth cavalry but with Captain Morris in charge. I will not leave your side, Richard."

For a moment the two men leveled heated glares at each other, two wills of steel tempered by the same forge battling in a short struggle for dominance, but Belial would not back down and Richard did not have the time to make him. The king relented with a heavy nod, and, with a grim smile of victory, Belial wheeled his mount around and took off to relay the king's orders to his captain. Richard returned his gaze to the messenger.

"Return to the front. Inform Ferdok that the Sixteenth Cavalry is on its way."

The boy nodded and for the first time Richard noticed the boy's pallor. As if just realizing itself that something was wrong the soldier's body gave out and collapsed to the ground. Richard started. He leaped from his mount and was on his knees by the boy's side in an instant. Deft fingers unclasped the breastplate and Richard felt his hands come into contact with something slick and simultaneously sticky. A sense of urgency filled him and he tore away the armor. Blood oozed over the boy's hauberk from a deep wound in his side where some smart weapon had found its way into the armor's blind spot. Richard placed his hands over the wound, pressing down as hard as he could. He felt the boy wince beneath his hands.

"Richard," Belial's voice sounded startled and urgent.

"He is wounded, Belial," Richard replied without looking up. "Has the Sixteenth mobilized?"

"Aye, Milord."

"Get the healers."

"Aye."

Belial hastened away to do as he was bidden, leaving Richard to see to the young soldier until he could return.

"Sire?"

Richard looked up from his blood covered hands at the sound of the boy's voice. He gave the boy a look which he hoped was reassuring but his body felt strangely numb all over, excepting his hands where he acutely felt the soldier's life seeping through his fingers. "It is better if you do not move." He reproved in a quiet but stern tone as the boy struggled to rise.

"I must…I must return to the fifth," the messenger panted, but his movements slowly stilled.

"The sixteenth cavalry is on its way to aide them as we speak," Richard replied gently. "Do not worry yourself. They are in good hands."

The boy reluctantly nodded and allowed his eyes to close, though his body showed no signs of relaxing. Suddenly Richard became angry with himself. He could not simply address the soldier as "boy" even if it was within his own head. The young messenger was a soldier of Sandora, true to his king and loyal to his comrades. He'd run wounded up the hill, possibly all the way from the front, carrying his message. He was an exemplary soldier and man.

"Your name, Sir Knight. Pray tell us."

The soldier opened his eyes and blinked several times, either trying to comprehend Richard's words or waiting to make sure he was correct in assuming the King of Sandora was actually speaking to him.

"A…Aldrich, Sire."

Richard's eyes softened fractionally. "You have fought bravely and well this day, Sir Aldrich. We are proud to count you among our knights."

He watched as the young knight's eyes widened fractionally and a small uncertain smile graced his battle stained face.

"Rest now, Sir Aldrich," Richard commanded gently. Behind him he heard the approaching footsteps of yet another soldier. The eyes of the knight before him focused over his shoulder and his expression twisted into one of surprise and rage. Richard's brow furrowed in confusion and he made to turn.

"My Lord!" The boy cried and lunged to pull Richard down and to the side. The king heard more than felt the impact of metal glancing off of his golden armor.

Surprised, Richard was nevertheless quick to his feet; he rounded on his adversary, his blade singing as it left its sheathe. A quick glance down informed him that Aldrich was now unconscious from blood loss and the strain of the simple movement it had taken to save his king's life. The monarch's eyes flicked up once more to settle on his enemy, a Basileen soldier cloaked in dark green. The man wore a grim expression and lifted his sword to challenge Richard. In his head Richard scoffed at the coward who would have knifed him in the back only moments ago instead of challenging him openly. The Basili probably thought better than to challenge a man as thoroughly trained in war and the way of the sword as the King of Sandora should be.

He will surely be in for a surprise, Richard thought humorlessly.

Their eyes locked, Richard and his would be assassin circled warily, each watching, waiting for a clear opening. Belatedly, Richard wondered where Belial was and why this Basileen was alone in his quest. It was then that he realized that the sounds of battle were suddenly much closer and coming from the direction of the healer's tents.

They were fighting, Richard realized with a start. His soldiers, his wounded Sandoran soldiers had engaged the enemy before they had had the chance to get to him and only this Basileen had made it through their defense.

Spotting his chance in Richard's mental distraction the Basileen soldier lunged forward with his sword. Acting instinctively, Richard gracelessly flung his sword out to block the assassin's strike. The blades came together with a crash that jarred Richard and forced him to take a step back. The assassin leered at him, for the first time realizing the full extent of Richard's capabilities as a fighter had been grossly exaggerated. Richard's eyes narrowed at the man as he disengaged his blade from the king's only to strike again. The swords connected with a clang sending numbing electricity up Richard's arm. The king grimaced but held onto the blade. The assassin pressed forward, hacking away at Richard's meager defense and forcing him back several steps. The Basileen then dealt him a blow which over balanced the young king's fragile stance. Seeing his opening he reared back to deliver what would be a devastating final blow. Richard saw the intent and flung his own sword up bracing his hand against the flat of the blade as the Basileen sword came crashing down against his. Richard was in a disadvantaged position. The man raised his sword again, delivering a quick succession of crushing blows against the sword until the king was driven to his knees. The Basileen shifted his weight into the sword forcing Richard's defense to buckle slowly under the pressure.

The wicked edge of the Basileen blade crept closer and closer to Richard's upturned face. Richard narrowed his eyes at the blade as though it was nothing much more than a mere annoyance before refocusing his gaze on the assassin. Their eyes locked, one gleam of victory and one glare of defiance locked in a battle of wills. Richard allowed his breathing to deepen, inhaling slowly and deliberately. As the Basileen sword inched ever downward Richard shifted his weight beneath him then slowly rolling it forward onto the balls of his feet. In swordplay the King of Sandora simply had never developed the amount of skill and stamina necessary to constantly read and counter his opponent in such close quarters. He did, however, have one distinct advantage. What he lacked in stamina he more than made up for in sheer, albiet short bursts of, power.

Richard inhaled and gave slightly, allowing the sword to come down faster than the Basileen had anticipated. The man recoiled minutely to regain his bearings. Richard released the breath and with it forced himself up, his strong legs uncoiling like a spring in an explosion of power. He shoved the startled Basileen back. Both hands gripping the hilt of his blade Richard leaped forward and thrust the point of his sword into the Basileen's chest, slicing through the assassin's light leather armor. He heard the bone split beneath his blade and four hand-spans of steel found its sheath in unresisting flesh.

The body of the Basileen soldier slumped to the ground and Richard wrenched the sword free from the body. That task complete, he turned away to aid his wounded soldiers fighting the Basileen assassins behind him. Something hard connected with the side of his head. He fell back, stunned, as flecks of color burst before his eyes. Before he could register the attack, his assailant lashed out again this time to kick the away the sword that now hung limply from the king's hand. Still trying to shake away the pain and now defenseless against the enemy, Richard stepped away in a flourish from the advancing Basileen.

"Richard!"

The king jerked back in surprise as a crimson tipped sword erupted from beneath the sternum of his assailant. The sword fell from the man's hands, sticking itself in the ground at Richard's feet. The king's eyes widened slightly as the sword tip disappeared once more. The limp body toppled to the ground and his eyes refocused on the dark haired general.

"Belial?" the stunned and disoriented king uttered in bemusement.

"Take this," The general ordered, thrusting a lance against his chest. Richard needed no further convincing as his hands instinctively rose to take hold of the weapon that stood as tall as he. "The enemy comes directly. Milord, we must sound the retreat!"

The young king nodded shortly and winced, "Where is Thomas?" He asked, rubbing the throbbing knot that was rising on the side of his head.

"The boy is dead," Belial informed him tonelessly, "he still clutches the clarion."

"We must make our way to him," Richard said firmly. "Belial, you must return to the other soldiers."

The dark haired general's eyes hardened. "I will not leave your side, My King."

"Your defiance will get you killed one day my friend,"

"Better than my compliance getting you killed," He replied tersely. "Come, I know the way," He placed a firm hand on Richard's shoulder. "Do not leave my side, little brother."

Richard smirked and nodded, there was no mistaking the glint in his compatriot's eyes. And then Belial was gone, spearing the way ahead into a sea of bodies and war cries with Richard hot on his heels.

"Here!" Belial cried as they approached the body of a young man, relatively ignored by the chaos around them.

"Sound the retreat, Belial," Richard called from behind him. "I will keep them at bay."

With a short nod Belial turned to retrieve the horn from the clutches of the dead boy. His spear in his hands, Richard turned to the nearest Basileen, one of many which had recognized and attempted to pursue the king through the chaos. Executing a quick turn midstep, he spun and brought the butt end of the lance down across the soldier's face. Swinging back he slashed the man with the head. He turned and jabbed. The head of his lance found its home in the throat of yet another enemy soldier. He jerked back, and whirled around, but felt no impact where he had expected one. Spotting the Basileen, who had managed to leap back from being struck by the blunt end of the lance, he lunged forward in an attempt to impale him. The soldier struck the head of the lance with his sword diverting the head into the earth, but that did not stop Richard who used the lance's new position as leverage to leap the distance and plant his foot across the soldier's face.

The king could not help the smile that rose to his face as the soldier went down. He would remember to thank Belial once more later on for being such a good teacher. Richard wasted no time in rounding on the next Basileen soldier who attempted to subdue him when the familiar cry of his friend's voice brought him to a momentary halt. He glanced over his shoulder to where he knew Belial to be. What he saw tore a cry from his throat.

Belial's sword fell from his slack fingers and clattered uselessly to the ground. His face contorted into a mask of anguish. The Basileen looking into his eyes smiled grimly and leaned against the sword thrust into his belly, driving it further home, tearing another cry from the throat of the general. Without thinking Richard inhaled, turned, and struck an attacking Basileen in the arm. He heard the crunch of metal and bone but didn't look back as he exhaled and drove forward, powerful legs pumping against the ground carrying him to his brother's side.  
Forgoing his lance altogether Richard flung himself bodily against the Basileen soldier. They hit the ground with a crash and Richard's fingers closed around the hilt of a sword. He raised the sword over his head and brought it down in a spray of blood and bone. In his pain hazed mind all Belial registered was the blur of gold and the cry of metal colliding against metal and then he was greeted by the eternal blue sky of the plains.

Richard heard the soft clank and thump of Belial's fall and scrambled off the body of the soldier and to his general's side. As gingerly as possible he pulled the sword from Belial's stomach and pressed his hands over the wound.

"Richard," Belial gasped, "the horn. You must sound the retreat."

Richard's brow furrowed but he nodded. Picking up Belial's hand he pressed it against the wound and carefully removed his own. "Put as much pressure on it as you can, Belial."

The man snorted in annoyance, "Before it's too late, Richard!"

The young king scrambled away from his friend's side and dove for the horn as if it were a life line. Leaping to his feet he brought the mouth piece to his lips and played for all he was worth the clear, precious melody of defeat.

Below them in the valley the surprised Sandorans looked to the Golden General for confirmation. Thrusting his sword one final time into the body of an enemy he wheeled his mount around and urged it forward. All around him the remaining Sandorans mimicked his retreat and with a great cry the Basileens gave chase.

On the hilltop, drawn by the sound of the clarion, the soldiers of Basil surrounded Richard. With neither sword nor lance the young king was nearly defenseless against the soldiers. Glancing to his fallen general he saw Belial as the man struggled to rise, sword in hand, ready to defend his king even as his own dark blood flowed through his fingers. An enemy soldier kicked the weapon away and laid into Belial, kicking him in the side repeatedly.

"Belial!" Richard cried and leaped at the man, knocking him down as he had the first soldier. Several pairs of hands and arms seized him and dragged him off the Basileen. The soldier stood and brushed himself off but his malice filled eyes never left the king.

"Hold him still."

The man's compatriots were all too happy to comply. Grips tightened and the soldier took a swing which connected hard with Richard's cheekbone. The king made no sound, though he felt like his face had exploded. He tried to shake away the spots and blotches that filled his vision. Behind the punching soldier, Belial made a new attempt at rising. Another Basileen kicked him in the face and Belial was down for good, but he didn't stop there.

The pain suddenly became nothing and Richard cried out to his fallen general, his best friend, as the man kicked him over and over as though taking some sadistic pleasure in the action. Richard struggled hard against his captors as Belial's body curled in on itself still clutching his stomach. Richard shook his head furiously, his eyes never leaving Belial's form as the punching soldier turned to laugh. Basil had won the day, the war. Sandora was in shambles all around him and before him personified by the continued abuse of his most loyal general. All logical thought left him. Richard strained forward with every intention of tearing the soldier away from his wounded general. His captors were dragged forward by the sudden display of power and more hands grabbed him. Finally, a soldier raised his sword and brought the hilt down harshly against the back of Richard's skull. It connected with a sickening crack and a sharp yelp, and the Sandoran king's vision went black.

* * *

Author's notes:

Richard and Belial are not brothers literally. It's a figure of speech.

Also, I'm gunna say these things now because I don't think there will ever be a point in the story where I can say them.

numero uno – I did a crazy (for me) amount of math for this story and found out that either someone at sony couldn't multiply or someone at translation department didn't think the number was at all relevant but the amount of time it's been since the end of the Wingly oppression (either 10,000 or 11,000 years depending on what part of the game you're in and who is talking) is grossly inaccurate. Charle comments that Rose has killed the moon child 108 times and since it comes every 108 years it has been exactly 11,682 years since the end of (what I dub) the Wingly era (that's actually plus 18 since Shana survived and is now 18 years old).

Numero dos – How did Lloyd survive? Plot bunnies. They administered CPR and lifted him out of the implosion of TMTNS on wings of fluff and love and delivered him into the waiting arms of Wink. Yes Wink. I really don't care (or understand) what you Wink haters think. Sorry.

Seriously though? It was never definitively exposited that Lloyd was dead, and in such an exposition heavy game you think they'd say something. So the possibility runs either way, for my purposes I needed him alive, and let's just say that Miranda, ultimately being a kind and gentle person underneath all of her hate and bitchiness and also knowing Wink's soft spot for him, picked him up and carried him out.

Conclusion: Miranda is a plot bunnie in disguise! D:


	3. Chapter 2: Three Days Till Sunset

This Time Imperfect

Chapter 2: Three Days till Sunset

His helmet under one arm, his other hand fisted at his side, the general marched stiffly up the red velvet covered stairs into the throne room. Even before reaching the top he could see that the red seat stood vacant upon the dais. At the top of the stairs he stopped and glanced around the room finding nothing and no one of interest. It seemed that, in addition to the Grand Prince's absence, the various ministers had been dismissed. A short huff of air left him through his nose, a sure sign of his annoyance. He turned, his green cloak flaring out behind him, to leave the throne room when his eyes caught the regal green and silver clad figure of the Grand Prince standing on the balcony. With another huff he rounded the railing and walked out onto the balcony. Some five paces behind the man he came to a halt. He saluted, bringing his right first up to the left side of his chest, and bowed shallowly.

"Your Majesty," was all he said and then he waited to be acknowledged.

"Yes," came the man's reply; the general did not miss the heavy quality of his tone, "what is it?"

The general straightened. "The Sandoran army has been vanquished."

The man was silent for a long moment before replying, "When?"

"Not less than a day ago this morning, Sire; on the midplains just north of Kindle."

He nodded slowly, "And my cousin?"

"He has been captured, as per your orders. He arrives at Fort Gilda tonight."

"His army?"

"They retreated south into the forest. We managed to capture a few but it was a well planned retreat, Sire our scouts lost track of them in the forest."

"Is there any possibility that they will regroup and mount another attack?"

"No, Sire I don't think so. They suffered massive casualties on the field and Phelias reports that they lost the Violet General."

"I see. Begin moving into South Serdio. Make certain Kindle and Hoax are secured, but do it quickly. It is imperative that we begin closing down the borders, starting with Rawan Pass. Once that task is complete move into Kazas and declare martial law."

"It shall be done my prince," the general acknowledged with a bow. "And what of the factions in the southern Villude Mountains?"

"They will be dealt with when the time comes. First the boarders and Kazas."

"Yes sir... Sire," the general's voice became carefully deliberate, "what is to be done with Prince Richard once he reaches Gilda?"

Garreck closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. A gentle breeze picked up, tugging on his long golden brown hair, whispering a silent plea. "What do you propose be done?"

"He must be executed, Sire," the general answered with hard conviction. "He must be made an example of."

The Grand Prince of Basil opened his eyes to stare up at the cheery blue sky over the city of Bale and nodded. "In three days time, at sunset."

"Yes, Sire."

"Dismissed."

"Yes, Sire," The general bowed again. Without another word he turned to leave but jerked to a halt as his eyes fell upon the form of a woman perched perilously on the armrest of the Grand Prince's throne. Their eyes locked and the corners of her cherry lips curled upwards. He narrowed his eyes and strode toward the stairs not once taking his eyes off of her until he reached them. He stopped by the stairs and her smile broadened before he broke eye contact and descended the stairs. Silence followed in the wake of his departure.

"Are you sure this is the right thing?" Garreck finally asked in a soft voice. Despite his having not turned around he seemed to be quite aware of the presence of the woman. Though he could not see she smiled once more for his benefit. She stood slowly and walked toward the back of the room.

"It is what must be done."

* * *

Cries of anguish echoed down the dank corridors of Fort Gilda. For thirty years Fort Gilda had entertained Basil's prisoners of war with brutal, relentless torture and cruelty. On the eve of the Sunset Island Massacre her halls had run red with the blood of Mille Seseau. She had glutted herself on their anguish, their cries for mercy, their tears, and their flesh, and had sat satiated but still craving that which she longed for, that which her very existence had been made for. Not long now, not long. Fort Gilda sat silent, sat brooding in hungry anticipation for the blood of the King of Sandora.

"Get in there and shut up!"

The command was arbitrary, as Richard had not uttered a word since his capture. The guard spat in disgust and gave him a rough shove. He stumbled into the dank cell and pitched forward, hitting the floor hard. The iron door swung shut with a heavy, steely bang and the bolt was slid home with a grinding squeal. The young king made no move to rise from where he had fallen. The cell was damp and dreary and the cold stone floor leeched away the heat of his body through the threadbare garment he gad been dressed in upon arriving. His golden armor and his chain mail had been taken even before he had woken up alone in the iron prisoner transport. From the point where he had awoken the journey had taken nearly two days, but he had no idea how much time had passed since his initial capture. He had not bothered asking, knowing that he would not be answered. He had not been the only prisoner, but he had been the most heavily guarded. Upon arrival he had been unloaded separately from his soldiers, many of whom had been shouting profanities and demanding that their king be returned to them. He was led to a different, higher security wing. That was the point where he had been stripped naked, doused with a bucket of water, and redressed in the threadbare prisoner's clothes he now wore.

"Commander!" the muffled voice of the guard filtered in from outside the cell. Richard perked up and listened intently.

"How is the prisoner?"

"Non responsive, Sir, but otherwise cooperative."

"Good. Open the door."

"Yes, Sir."

The grinding squeal told Richard that the guard was retracting the door bolt. The young king scrambled to his feet and tossed his, slightly damp, red hair over his shoulder as he straightened himself out in an attempt to look as dignified and self righteous as possible. When the door of the cell opened the green and silver clad commander was greeted by the proud, cold countenance of the King of Sandora staring down at him. His lip curled at the sight of the man who, despite his rags, still managed to look and act every bit the part of the regal, golden armored king that had been the bane of the Republic of Basil for the past six years.

"The Grand Prince has ordered your execution, Richard Forenz," the soldier informed him coldly.

"We expected no less."

The commander sneered. "You have three days to make your peace with Soa," He spat. "My men will come for you sunset of the third day," with that the soldier turned to leave the cell but Richard forestalled him with an unexpected question.

"How is this execution to be carried out?"

The commander turned to study him with raised brow. For a moment it seemed he was considering whether or not he should answer the ex-king's question. Finally he turned to face Richard fully, "The Grand Prince has seen it fit that you die a quick and noble death by the sword," He held up three fingers. "Sunset. Three days."

The soldier turned and knocked on the door. It opened and he slipped out. The guard shut and locked the door behind the commander.

_Richard's stiff posture slackened. That was it then. He would die, and Serdio would be united under his cousin's rule. He had known all along that the only way this war would end was with the death of either himself or his cousin._

"That one don't deserve no noble death," the guard spat once the grinding bolt was in place. Richard stepped closer to the door and peeked out of the thin, barred slot that the guard was meant to use to keep an eye on him.

The commander scoffed. His arms were crossed over his chest. "It's not our choice. He's a prince of Serdio in the Republic of Basil. The Grand Prince's commands will be followed to the letter," There was a pause. "The Grand Prince also ordered that he be treated courteously and be in peak condition at his execution. The General's message implied that the Minister of Affairs herself would be sent to oversee the execution."

The guard made a strange choking sound. Richard could not see the guard's expression as he was turned away from the door but his voice came out high and nervous, "The Minister of-? S-she's coming?"

"Yes. So I suggest you take care of him. Have Duer bring him his meals."

"Yes, Sir!" he replied in a deeper, snappier tone. He saluted and the commander nodded in acknowledgment before turning and walking away down the corridor.

"The Minister of Affairs? Soa's ass," he swore and made a beckoning motion to someone outside of Richard's field of vision. "Go find the little rat and tell him he's to bring this prisoner his meals."

"Yes, Sir!"

The guard saluted, probably in response to his subordinate, and turned around.

"Hey!" Richard blinked and the guard hit the iron door with the butt of his spear. "Get away from the door!" The young king complied wordlessly. The guard snorted and turned away, leaving him to his own devices.

Richard glanced around the room in an attempt to distract himself. The ceiling was high, and the room was lit by a gas lamp high up on the wall that not even Richard with his great height could reach. There was a cot pushed against one wall with a flat pillow and a thin blanket. Richard lowered his gaze, his brows knitted together with consternation. For the first time in quite a long time he was truly alone. It was a strange feeling, being alone. Silence, usually so comforting, felt suddenly oppressive, as though it could choke him, and all at once the empty aloneness sank into him. Its unexpected weight caused Richard to physically stagger to the nearest wall where he slid down into a sitting position, his head bowed between his knees. He was Richard of The House of Forenz, king of nothing, worth nothing except in death. He could not even save his loyal friend, the only friend he had had in boyhood, as dear to him as a brother: Belial, who knew him best, his battle mate since childhood. They had been raised and trained together. Richard could not remember a time when he had been without Belial.

The consequences of his decisions floated back to him, settling upon him in a heavy cloak of misery. Richard knew that Belial had seen right through him, had known his plans all along. The young regent had seen it in the general's eyes every time they looked at each other, like a cloud of bitterness and anger and an understanding that hurt Richard more than the resentment. However, it was all necessary. The deception and the sacrifice, they had both been necessary. His death would end the war and free the people of Serdio. His death would serve Serdio as his life had served Sandora.

His death. Richard's eyes closed and he covered his mouth with a hand. Was he truly prepared for his death?

"Belial," he whispered into the silence of the cell, his voice strained with by the weight of his encroaching mortality, "Brother. I cannot do this. I am not strong enough."

A shudder passed through Richard's body, and then another. Exhausted and crushed beneath the weight of all the hearts depending on him, he no longer had room in his heart for dignity. The sorrows of his people, the horror and weight of the path he had chosen, all crashed into him and his heart broke. Richard, the king of Sandora, wept onto the unforgiving stones of Fort Gilda. For his people, for Endiness he wept until he had no more tears to shed and then, finally, sweet darkness claimed him.

* * *

Notes to the reader

Chapter 1 was updated to be less ridiculous at the beginning.

I will make no promises concerning updates except to say that this story WILL one day be completed.


	4. Chapter 3: The Boy from Lidiera

This Time Imperfect

Chapter 3: The Boy from Lidiera

"Hey. Hey, you okay?"

Something jabbed Richard hard in the side. The young monarch leaped up from a sound sleep into a battle ready crouch, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that was not there. His assailant yelped and skittered backwards out of the king's reach. Richard blinked away sleep and confusion and straightened to his full height while focusing on the man before him. The man was actually more boy than man, lanky, with sandy brown hair that fell to his shoulders in a dirty, unkempt tangle. He was also shorter than Richard by about a head or so, but that was unsurprising as most men were. He had an olivine complexion that was nevertheless sallow and sickly looking, but his eyes were bright and alive and the most startling shade of blue Richard had ever beheld. He wore garments similar to Richard's own, though more worn in places if that were even possible. Richard came to the conclusion that this boy too must be a prisoner, but the deposed monarch was quite certain the cell he had been graced with had been empty upon his first entering.

"Uh, hey there," the boy intoned uncertainly. Richard nodded slowly his acknowledgment. "I was, uh, just checking to see if you were still alive. You've been asleep for a while. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever wake up. I brought dinner!" He finished brightly and hurriedly picked up a tray from the floor near the door where he had retreated to. The tray was topped with some noxious looking concoction. Richard felt ill just looking at it.

"Really though," the boy lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I suggest you feed it to the rats and then eat those. They're higher in protein and they sure as hell won't kill you," He walked the tray over to a low table in the corner that Richard had not previously noticed. He continued in a normal conversational tone. "Unless you get the plague, which, I'm told, you can't actually get just from eating them, so I guess it's okay." The boy ended with a thoughtful look plastered over his face. He set the tray down and turned back to Richard with a smile.

"I suppose that makes you Duer," Richard ventured once he was certain the boy was finished speaking.

"They told you about me!" The boy exclaimed as if this was the best news he had ever received. "Yeah, I'm Duer, and hey, thanks for getting thrown in here. I've never been allowed into this wing before. Believe it or not, it's actually /really/ nice compared to the rest of the place. I've been here for /years/ so trust me 'cuz I'd know. So, whatcha in for?"

The guard banged on the door from outside, "You got enough friends already, Duer! Git yer ass outta there!" The guard shouted, then added more quietly but still loud enough to be heard inside the cell. "That one's not gunna be around much longer anyway."

Duer frowned and gave Richard a sympathetic look, "It's not so bad," He said quietly. "Sometimes they forget to kill you. Like me for example. I was supposed to hang /years/ ago, but they forgot all about it. You seem like a nice guy. A little good behavior and you'll be fine." With a reassuring smile and a thumbs up Duer scampered back to the door and knocked on it. The guard peeped in and opened the door for the boy. He looked back and waved, "See you tomo—hrk!"

The guard yanked Duer out by the collar and gave him a shake as he slammed the iron door shut, "Get outta here you moron! You got other work to do!"

"Okay, okay-I'm gone. Sheesh."

Richard stared at the door for a moment. Strangely the boy's words had been quite diverting. His feelings of amusement were fleeting however. Duer had no way of knowing exactly who he was or why he was here. They might have forgotten about the order of execution for the sickly brunet but no one was going to forget about the King of Sandora.

"Hey, Rat!"

The dirty haired prisoner Duer sighed a long suffering sigh and turned, a bright smile fixed on his face, "Someone call me?" The boy was suddenly surrounded by several guards and he gave a nervous laugh.

"Heard you were assigned to the prisoner up in the west tower," One of the guards said conspiratorially. They all stared at him. Duer nodded slowly, not sure where they were going with this. Someone reached out and cuffed him on the back of the head.

"By Soa but you're dense, Boy!"

Duer rubbed the back of his head, "What?" At this the guards all began laughing. Hard. Duer's face grew red in embarrassment, among other things. "Can I go? I have to get back to the kitchens-"

The guards seized him and began walking him down an east corridor which did /not/ lead toward the kitchens. Duer struggled a little, but not much. He was perfectly aware of where they were taking him and he groaned internally.

"Do you have any idea who it is in that tower, Boy?"

"Well, yeah… A soldier right? Is it a general or something?"

The soldiers let out a loud bellow of laughter. Duer frowned.

"It's okay you don't recognize him. We wouldn't expect you to," Said one.

"It's Richard," Said another. "The so called 'king' of Sandora."

Duer's eyes widened in surprise and he looked between the men, "Really? Does that mean-"

"Yes!"

"It means the war against southern Serdio's more or less over."

Duer frowned, "So…why are you telling me?"

One of the guards nodded his head, "Even without their king it's possible that Sandora'll keep puttin' up some resistance. Half their army escaped into the Topes mountains when they sounded their retreat and there are pocket resistances in the Villude mountain range."

Duer understood, and rolled his eyes slightly, "Okay, I get it. You want me to play spy and find out some information that you guys can use to…what? Get promoted? Or something."

"Don't go getting lippy, Kid," One soldier said, squeezing the back of Duer's neck. The boy cringed. "Remember the only reason you're even here today is cuz Eckard took a shining to you," At this the men leered at Duer. The boy seemed to shrink a little under their eyes.

"So what do you say?"

Duer swallowed thickly and muttered, "Yeah…I'll see what I can find out."

"And that's why I'm here," Duer finished explaining to Richard in a low tone.

The young monarch was a little stunned at the boy's honesty. He chuckled but the sound was sad. He pushed himself up from the edge of the cot and folded his hands behind his back, "I apologize, Duer. My presence here has put you into a strange and precarious position."

Duer shrugged, "Not really. My position was already pretty pricky-us," Richard's brows quirked at Duer's pronunciation. "So what should I tell them?"

Richard shook his head and turned to face Duer, "You may tell them that I know nothing of resistances in the mountains. There was a passage once through the mountains. In the beginning of the war my father had troops stationed there. A major battle was fought there but it never came to anything. There was an earthquake you see. It caused part of the mountain to crumble and collapse. The two sides were forced into a retreat and many were never heard from again. Any more than that I do not know I am afraid. I suppose you may tell your," he paused, searching for the right word, "associates that there are troops stationed in the Villude mountain range, if that will benefit you at all, though if there are they certainly are not mine." Richard thought for a moment and then smiled a smile of defeated contentment. "Tell them that the troops in the Villude mountain range will move east upon hearing of my capture and the escaped army will move south east to meet with them in Eastern Serdio to take back Fort Seles. I'm sure if they believe that it will keep them busy for a little while."

"Why would they do that though?" Duer asked. Richard saw the apprehension in the boy's face and knew he was concerned for the potential validity of these made up plans. It was his life in the balance after all.

"Whoever controls Fort Seles controls fifty percent of Serdio's total farmland. Since the beginning of the war it has been taken, lost, and retaken numerous times by either side. Currently it is Basileen territory. Its capture could be seen as a last stand, it could be ransomed for my safe return."

"Ooohh," Duer nodded his head in a very sage like way.

"I assume your enthusiastic response means that your associates will be satisfied."

"I sure as hell hope so," the boy responded. He scratched at his dirty nose. "So uh… You're the king."

"I am," Richard responded with a small nod of acquiescence.

Duer looked away, "I'm sorry for sayin' what I said. About them forgettin'.I guess it wasn't very much comfort considerin' who you are n'all."

Richard smiled magnanimously at the young man and Duer's spirit seemed to lift, "Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts," the young monarch said. "Your words were diverting, and for what it is worth I am glad to have been able to know you."

"Aw don' talk about yourself in the past tense like that already, yer majesty."

The deposed monarch bowed his head, still smiling. Duer watched the taller man with an expression of worry over his sallow features. He hoped he hadn't offended the king. After a moment Richard looked up, curiosity etched into his gaze.

"May I ask where it is you are from, Duer?"

Duer scratched at the crown of his head, "Yeah, ya can I guess. I'm from Lidiera."

Richard's brows came together slightly in confused curiosity, "So far."

"Yeah… It was a couple years ago when Basil moved on the Sunset Islands. I guess there was a treaty because the Islands haven't been attacked since. That's what I heard anyway," Duer shrugged. "And I mean if they have been at least no prisoners have been sent here."

"I can tell you with certainty that Basil has not moved against the Sunset Islands since that time," Richard said, hoping his words would reassure Duer. "There /was/ a treaty, one which effectively cut Tiberoa, and through Tiberoa Southern Serdio, off entirely from Mille Seseau," He paused, uncertain as to how Duer would take what he had to say next. It was with a heavy heart that Richard continued, "The treaty gave control of the Sunset Islands to Basil."

"Oh," Duer responded. The boy's expression became distant and Richard knew that in his mind he was reliving the horror that had been the Sunset Island Massacre.

Duer shook himself out of his thoughts and nodded slightly to Richard, "I better get goin'. I'll see you tomorrow uh, Your Majesty."

Richard nodded in acknowledgement, "To-morrow. Thank you, Duer."

Despite his obvious sorrow, the boy smiled before moving to the door, yesterday's tray in his hands though the food upon it was untouched. He kicked at the door with his heel. "Oy!" he shouted out the window slat.

"Shut yer face," came the bellow in response from Richard's guard. It sounded like the man was not directly in front of the door where he usually was, but somewhere down the hall. Duer's smile became conspiratorial.

"There was a little 'trouble' down on the lift platform," he informed Richard, his voice suddenly lighter in an attempt to forget and alleviate the moment. "Now watch. He'll open the door, grab me by back a'the neck, and just drag me out. It's pretty predictable how they a—ack!"

The door was opened with a screech of the bolt and sure enough Duer was grabbed and pulled bodily from Richard's cell. Richard blinked several times as the cell door was once again bolted from the outside and the guard's voice was hollering incomprehensibly at Duer.

Unable to help himself, Richard laughed.


	5. Chapter 4: Sisters of the Silver Dragon

This Time Imperfect

Chapter 4: Sacred Sisters of the Silver Dragon

"My Lady Flulia!"

Several women looked up from the camp fire they were settled around. It was not yet night, though the sun was nearing its descent in the west. They all wore cloaks of dark grey to keep out the autumn chill. Nearby there was a covered wagon. Several more heads poked out of it in curiosity. One of the women stood from the circle around the fire and pushed back the hood of her cloak as the woman who had called out to her ran up.

"My Lady Flulia, we have had word from Bale."

"Speak," the woman called Flulia commanded.

"My Lady, King Richard is to be executed two days hence at sunset. He is being held in Fort Gilda as was suspected."

The woman Flulia nodded her head, "Thank you, Sister Korrine. Please come and sit by the fire. You must be freezing."

The messenger nodded her head as Flulia gestured toward the fire, "Thank you, my Lady."

As Korrine sat Flulia turned back to the group of women who were now all looking at her. She thought for a moment before opening her mouth to address them, "I see worry in some of your faces, Sisters. You need not. We all know that King Richard is this land's only hope for continued survival. We /will/ free him. We will rest a little longer before we leave, but we will make our way to Fort Gilda directly."

The women all stood and saluted, "Yes, My Lady," They said as one, and without further hesitation they began cleaning up the area where they had made camp.

The women were soon underway as the sky in the east grew dark with the sinking of the sun in the west. They traveled in relative silence with no need to speak of the job ahead. The sun sank beneath the horizon and one of the sister's lit lamps which she carefully hung on the back and front of the wagon as it continued to move. Soon after the monstrous shape of Fort Gilda appeared on the horizon and Flulia looked to several women which rode along behind the wagon on horseback. The leader of the women, as signified by the gold trimming on her grey cloak, nodded and signaled the four women with her. They fell back as the wagon continued on alone toward Gilda.

"Halt!" Called a guard at the gate of the prison fortress as the wagon rolled up. Flulia did as told and pulled back on the reigns, causing the horses to slow with a snort and come to a stop before the gates. Two guards came forward with lanterns held high over their heads. "A delivery wasn't scheduled for tonight," the guard informed her suspiciously. The woman lifted a hand to push back the hood of her cloak and smiled. This guard was new. The other guard was not.

"Flulia!" The second guard named her, pleasant surprise apparent in his voice. "You're back soon."

"The battle is over," Flulia responded, her voice low and breathy. The man shifted where he stood. "We were on our way back to Bale, but decided to come out of our way to see how you all were."

"Well I'm sure we'll be better now that you're here," the guard responded with a crooked smile.

"Sir?" The first guard intoned with confusion. The second guard rolled his eyes and gave the new guard a pointed look, "This is Flulia," he informed the other man. "She and her girls are welcome. Always."

The new guard stared at his superior for a long moment before comprehension dawned on his face which, in the same instant, turned bright red, "O-oh!"

Flulia chuckled and the older guard grinned, "I'll lower the gate," He said and turned toward the gatehouse.

Flulia looked to the new guard and gave him a wink as the loud clanking of the gate coming down filled the air. The man looked away, his face still bright red. Flulia thought he must have been very new to the army for the idea of whores to bother embarrass him so much. She cracked the reigns against the backs of the horses as the guard waved them into the fortress. At the back of the cart the sister who had placed the lamps doused the left light.

About a half a league away from the fortress the woman with the golden trimmed cloak slid down from her perch atop a large rock, "They are inside the fortress."

"Lady Siriol, will this work?" asked one of the four women that had detached from the wagon with Siriol. The ranking woman leveled a stern look at the much younger woman who shrank under her superior's gaze.

"Do not doubt Lady Flulia, Young Cecelia, for she is the best of us. She and the Sisters with her have given up their bodies and their pride for us and for King Richard."

"I do not doubt Lady Flulia," the young sister tried to correct the ranking woman. "I was merely worried-"

"It is not your place to worry, Young Cecelia. You need only follow my direction," She looked to the other women of the party. They all stood dismounted by their horses, the wind plucking at their cloaks and the skirts they wore beneath the cloaks. "Everyone remembers what it is they must do?" The women nodded, as did the doubtful Cecelia. "Good. Let us ride."

The women moved as one at the command, each throwing off her cloak and stringing the massive bow she pulled from her saddle. The women wore matching uniforms of thick white leather jerkins and fluttery pleated skirts, under which they wore shorts. The uniforms were made for quick, easy movements, and moderate defense. They mounted their horses, bows and quivers at the ready and looked to Siriol whose jerkin was a bright orange. She pointed the top of her bow toward Fort Gilda and spurred her horse forward. The Sisters followed suit, and together they rode to the rescue of the King of Sandora.


End file.
